Every once in a while I read a book that is so good I’m not
sure if I can write a review. There is something about reviewing an amazing
book that is horribly intimidating—nothing I could ever say will do this
justice! Frankly, I find it nerve-racking to comment on something so purely
awesome. What is there to say besides “wow”? Cheryl Strayed’s autobiography Wild was almost one of those books for
me. Is there any aspect could I possibly rehash? How could any explanation of
this book be enough? Then I decided I enjoyed Wild so much I had to talk about it, no matter how
inadequately.
I remember when I first heard about the book Eat, Pray, Love. Many of my most beloved friends raved about
how spectacular it was. In their words, I absolutely had to experience this journey
of a self discovery. Needless to say, my expectations were high. Then a funny
thing happened, I couldn’t even hack it to Italy.
I disliked the book that much. Who is this whinny, self-absorbed woman? I
really wanted to like it, to experience the same camaraderie with the narrator
as my friends, but I couldn’t. Where am I going with this? Well, Cheryl
Strayed’s Wild is everything I hoped
for in Eat, Pray, Love and then some.
She is a woman caught up in pain who has made some self-destructive decisions.
The key difference is that I found Cheryl Strayed to be likeable and genuine. I
also might be impartial to any story about hiking. Might.
Say what you will about Oprah, but her book-selecting
minions know their stuff. There is a reason she resurrected Oprah’s Book Club
for this title—it’s that good, people. I strongly recommend Wild to any summer reader looking for an
adventurous escape.
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